Rehearsals for La La Land were rolling along, steady and relentless.
Sure, the cast had plenty of gripes about Joy. A lot of them side-eyed the hell out of her, convinced some Hollywood hotshot had no business telling Broadway veterans how to do their jobs. But out of respect for Gertia (and because they didn't exactly have better options), everybody kept it zipped and showed up.
At this point it was sink or swim. Either they stuck it out and gave it everything, or they quit and kissed their passion goodbye. And if they were gonna stay, they sure as heck weren't about to let the show flop on their watch. Nobody wanted that embarrassment on their résumé.
With a couple of assistant directors and consultants pitching in, Joy poured every ounce of her vision into this stage version of La La Land.
Emma Stone was even better than Joy had hoped: pitch-perfect vocals, killer dance moves, total command of the leading lady role. The guy playing opposite her was Pete, a rock-solid theater pro from the company. Onstage, the two of them looked like they'd walked straight out of a golden-age movie poster.
After months of work, the full 100-plus-minute musical was basically blocked. They'd shaped the whole thing; now it was just endless reps to make it polished and airtight.
If Damien Chazelle's heartbreaking, dream-chasing script had made the world fall in love with the movie, Justin Hurwitz's jazzy score was the magic that turned it into a modern classic. That alchemy was eternal, and Joy was transplanting every bit of it to the stage.
She was convinced anybody who'd ever chased love or a dream (and in L.A., who hadn't?) would lose their minds over this show.
One night after rehearsal, instead of heading home, Joy swung by the American Theater, the hot new house that had been packing seats since last year.
They were the ones running Hairspray, the overnight Broadway smash everybody was talking about.
Joy had made it her ritual: every single night after rehearsal, she'd hit a different theater. This was her eighteenth time seeing Hairspray.
She sat there in the dark, scribbling notes like a maniac, trying to crack the code of what made it explode. Every hit show poked the audience right in the feels somehow; she needed to figure out how they did it.
That night she stayed so late the cleaning crew started vacuuming around her. She was still hunched over her notebook, terrified she'd forget some lightning-bolt insight the second she stepped outside.
Eventually she packed up, hunted down the elevator that went straight to the parking garage (no way was she fighting the main-exit crowd), and ended up waiting in a quiet back hallway.
That's when three guys in headsets walked by, obviously American Theater staff, probably part of the Hairspray creative team.
"Heard the higher-ups are already in talks to buy the Olympia," one said.
Joy froze. The Olympia was her theater.
"Man, it's sad. One of the oldest houses on Broadway, and it's going out like this."
"Apparently Gertia's still refusing to roll over. She's rehearsing some new musical, last-ditch effort to save it. If they could somehow pull Hairspray-level numbers, maybe the place survives."
The second guy snorted. "Gertia's dreaming. If she was that good, she wouldn't have tanked the place with that disaster Spring Awakening."
"Nah, get this; she brought in some Hollywood director to helm the new show."
The other two practically cackled. "You're kidding. A Hollywood director? On Broadway? What is she smoking?"
"Any idea who the poor sucker is? I wanna know so I can roast them at the next party."
"They're keeping it locked down tight. NDAs out the wazoo."
"Whoever it is, they're insane. Broadway and Hollywood are different planets. This idiot's just gonna help kill the Olympia faster."
"Word is the company's imploding already. Cast hates the Hollywood director. Something about a 'jazz musical'…"
"And they cast some inexperienced Hollywood newbie as the lead because no real Broadway talent would touch it. They're stuck with part-timers."
The three of them cracked up as the elevator dinged and they stepped in, never noticing Joy standing ten feet away.
She got into the down elevator alone, face totally calm.
The more people laughed at her, the harder she was going to work to shove that laughter right back down their throats.
Life would be boring if everybody just kissed your ass all the time.
Bring on the doubters. That fire was exactly what she needed.
She didn't go home that night. At 10 p.m. she marched right back to the Olympia, adrenaline buzzing.
She asked the night staff for every scrap of audience data they had from the Spring Awakening flop: names, phone numbers, emails; anything. Because those tickets were real-name purchases, the theater still had it all.
Normally, after every show closed, customer service called those folks for feedback. But the theater had laid off the whole department. Nobody ever made the calls.
Starting tomorrow, Joy was going to do it herself. Thousands of calls. However many she could squeeze in between rehearsals. She needed to know exactly why that show bombed so she didn't repeat the same mistakes with La La Land.
Broadway never releases DVDs; if you wanna see a show, you buy a ticket. Which means there's almost zero footage or detailed reviews floating around online. Real audience feedback was gold, and she was mining it the hard way.
A few weeks later, Tom stopped by to see Gertia and decided to poke his head in on Joy.
He found her drowning in paperwork at almost dinnertime, her untouched lunch still sitting there from noon.
Gertia had already filled him in: between rehearsals, Joy had been making those callback calls herself. No extra work for the already grumpy cast, so she was doing it solo. She'd been sleeping at the theater for weeks.
"Yes ma'am, what would you say was the biggest issue with Spring Awakening for you?"
"Okay, got it… And where do you think it could've been improved?"
"Thank you so much for your time!"
She hung up, reached for the next number, and a hand gently pressed the receiver down.
Joy spun around. "Tom! Hey, perfect timing. I was gonna text you; I can't make it to your place this weekend to practice dancing. I'm swamped. Sorry."
He took one look at the dark circles under her eyes and felt his chest tighten. Hollywood called her a genius, but she worked harder than anyone he'd ever met. That's why she was about to lap the field.
"No worries," he said softly. "We'll do it another time. How many more calls you got?"
She stretched, yawning. "Last day, thank God. After this I'm gonna sift through all the feedback and see what I can fix in the show."
Tom smiled, slid half the stack of pages toward himself, and scanned the endless list of phone numbers. "Cool. I'll take half."
Joy stared like he'd grown a second head. "Come again?"
"You heard me. And before you argue; tough. Decision's made." He leaned in, teasing but firm. "But I've got one condition. When we're done, you're eating a real dinner and actually sleeping tonight."
She frowned. "By the time we finish it'll be super late. Everything around here closes early…"
He waved it off like it was nothing. "I've got a huge place in the city. My chef's on call. We're good."
And just like that; under Tom Cruise's extremely stubborn negotiation tactics; he plopped down right next to her and started dialing.
Joy sat there stunned for a solid thirty seconds.
Tom freakin' Cruise was sitting in a dusty Broadway theater office doing customer-service callbacks.
And the craziest part? He was smooth as hell at it.
"Hi, this is the Olympia Theater calling; did you happen to see our production of Spring Awakening?"
"Yes ma'am, I'd love to hear your thoughts…"
Nobody on the other end of those calls had any clue that, on a random evening in 2005, the polite voice asking about their theater experience…
…was Tom Goddamn Cruise.